Nothing Beats Tradition
by Archea
Summary: He has outwitted Moriarty, survived the Hiatus and put off the old self. Of course he can cook a Christmas dinner for four. Sherlock/Lestrade (slash), with cameo appearances of Mrs Hudson, John and Mycroft. Written for the recent Sherlockmas Fest.


**Nothing Beats Tradition**

**8.20**

Mrs Hudson looks him over one last time before she beams approval and ties the apron string herself, tut-tutting wistfully when she has to wind it twice round the slim waist. "Now remember, dear," she tells Sherlock, oblivious to Mrs Turner's come-by whistle. They are standing between two doors, hers and the main entrance, now open onto Baker Street, the beautiful chill-lit sky with a touch of night still in it, and the attending minibus with its glossy LONDON'S SENIOR CITIZEN PAGANS on the side. "Just look after the timing –"

"– and the cooking will look after itself," Sherlock grins along, bending his head for her benediction kiss. "Really, Mrs Hudson. Such blatant lack of faith, on such a day. If Detective Inspector Lestrade can entrust me with the proof of the pudding –"

"Coo-ee!"

"Mar-tha!"

"Time and tide _and_ solstice, missus!" This from the driver, a Stonehenge old-timer, now lowering the window and waving a clump of holly outside to bait the stray sheep in.

"Pudding? You never said anything about – oh, you mean dessert, of course. Silly me."

Sherlock sighs. They have eyes and they do not see; they have ears and still need a tin opener for the commoner's English. "When I say pudding, Mrs Hudson, I mean pudding. As in puddle and doodling, and of equal interest to me, but who am I to interfere with Lestrade's fetish for tradition."

"But – surely, you're not planning to bake one, are you?" Mrs Hudson fairly bleats, one foot on the bus step. Sherlock's attempt to convey both affirmation and reassurance is cut short by a horn rendering of _Cauld Blaws the Wind_ and the driver launching the Pagan oldies on their way with the strength of a thousand burning bonfires.

He is left waving from the doorstep, his loins girded and a shadowy omen in his heart of hearts. But he knows what he's doing, and for whom he's doing it, and his heart has given the intruder a smart kick up the backside by the time he's retreated into his headquarters.

**8.30**

Sherlock observes the battlefield.

To his left, the lined-up kitchen appliances, some of which have become improvised supports for his chemicals, glassware and a potted aspidistra named Astrid, a refugee from Mrs Hudson's backyard. To his right, the large table has been wiped into a clean slate to host the basics for his new experiment, viz. one big turkey (male, one of twins, deliberately fed on cheap grain by a farmer who either had a nasty run of bigamy or was a food miser), celery, his laptop, crackers, more crackers (the Christmas sort), vegetables, raisins, flour, butter and a bottle of Madeira wine. The table won't give another inch, so the bowls are stacked on a chair and the chestnuts inside the larger teapot, next to the sulphonic acid.

Sherlock stares at the table. The Christmas Victuals United stare back at Sherlock, who adjusts his goggles and claps his hands briskly.

"We'll start with the turkey's crop."

**8.33**

If there's one thing he hates, it's cross-interrogating witnesses _in absentia_. The Classic Turkey website is explicit about pulling the giblets from the turkey's crop and washing it inside out. It does not provide an anatomic chart, but Sherlock has done his research and can tell wattle from crop, thank you very much. Jamie Oliver spouts a lot of nonsense about legs taking longer to cook than the breast (which Sherlock is certain could be disproved if only Mycroft let him access the Lecter files) but does not mention crops. A certain Wendy favours decapitation, followed by a full-body massage with butter and brandy, which sounds like weird poultry aftercare.

It's all very fussy and haphazard, and Sherlock, with a side-glance at the roaring fireplace in his living room, is rather tempted to dismiss the lot and fetch his harpoon. But if there's one thing he promised himself, when he called to suggest that Greg bring his children for Christmas lunch at 221B, it was that, this once, he'd play by the rules. Cook by the book. Show Greg he could do this, do family, put an end to the haphazard grief of their days before, when Greg wanted a square deal and Sherlock wanted the courage to give it, trying instead to square a widening circle of questions and evasions, leading to slammed-door statements, petty quarantines, bad shags, sad silent shags: Sherlock failing at every ceasefire. Until Greg called it quits on another Christmas Eve, Sherlock deleted a name, and it took Moriarty's own bastard vortex to straighten their circle at long last. Too long, Sherlock had thought later, huddled in a small Tibetan hut, his shorn head unused to the mountain cold. Too late?

No. Thankfully, no. The Madeira fills the air with its scent of thick sugar, burnt sugar, raisins under the sun and ripe summer days. It was bought for the chestnut soup but will have to do. Sherlock hums a little under his breath and dips his fingers into the warm butter.

**8.56**

The large turkey has been propitiated with a backrub, an offering of parsnip, carrots and celery, and a baptism free of charge. It has also been told not to emulate its namesake, but invest in some legwork for a change. Sherlock shoves it into the oven and turns to the chestnuts.

**9.12**

What does that Allrecipes woman think she's doing, telling him "to simply sauté" the chestnuts in butter? Split infinitives all right, but no indication to slice the shells or they will explode under the accumulated steam pressure? Sherlock confides the last chestnut to his frying pan with a righteous scowl. And they say _he_'s a kitchen hazard.

The woman says to it takes twenty minutes for the chestnuts to get properly heated through (and apart, Sherlock thinks sourly), which gives him a choice between looking up puddings and laying the main table. Sherlock sets the alarm on his phone and slips out from the room, taking the Madeira and shutting the kitchen door behind him.

**9.20**

There are six soup plates on the sitting room table, which puzzles him. Of course it could be that Mrs Hudson could not bear to deprive the last three of an outing. You never can tell with Mrs Hudson, whose affair with Mr Satterjee petered out long ago not because he had a wife in Doncaster, but because he couldn't see eye to eye with her on animism and would not let her honour the aubergine curry before they ate. Or it could be that she has remembered the old Pascalian quip about the heart out-reasoning reason and decided that Sherlock has invited Anderson and the new Mrs Anderson along.

But there will only be three guests, and Sherlock decides that the extra plates can be used for the crackers. The cheese variety, which will keep Greg happy if the turkey procrastinates, and the explosive brand, which will a) keep the children – no, Kes and Hannah, better start practising now – happy and b) show Sherlock at his best when he solves the riddles for them. Win-win table plan.

He picks a cracker and inspects the cheap, apparently seamless silk paper.

**9.21**

If he solves the riddles, will the children like him?

**9.21.30**

If the children like him, Greg will smile as he did on their first _after_ morning-after. The crinkly quiet smile that said _I'm letting go of the dark places_, as if Greg knew no better than to forgive against all odds, against entire years of data that bitched and busted Sherlock Holmes as a full-time partner. Unreasonable man that he is.

**9.23**

It takes more pull than he thought to let the cracker rip, with such a dismal bang that Sherlock wonders if, with a home-made touch of magnesium... Hmm, no. Rules, Sherlock. The cracker yields a paper hat and pink balloon which he blows up absently, then knots with one hand, smoothing the riddle out on the starched tablecloth. Seven Moves Ahead, his father's motto when they played chess in the summer days.

_What is the bane of Santa's life?_

**9.25**

Oh, for God's sake. He is Sherlock Holmes. He has cracked a Chinese cypher, the Woman's phone code, Major Barrymore's password _and_ that of the Home Office Intranet, the day he switched their desktop background for a photograph of Mycroft at two, lording it on his potty. He can crack a Tesco cracker.

**9.28**

He can!

**9.29**

_The elf and safety inspectors._

Sherlock reaches for the Madeira. Somebody has obviously convinced Greg to moonlight for the Christmas cracker company, which means that Sherlock will be starting the game with a handicap. This is intolerable.

**9.32**

_What do you get if you cross a hen with an alarm clock__?_

A red carpet to Baskerville.

_What do vampires sing on New Year's Eve?_

Oh, please.

_What does a frog do when his car breaks down?_

Are we speaking of a batrachian or a figurative Frenchman in the first place?

_Why do golfers need an extra pair of shoes?_

_What do you call a reindeer wearing earmuffs?_

_What do you call a reindeer with no eyes?_

Sherlock glares at the mounting pile of small papers on the tablecloth. Of all the cretinous, puerile, mind-shrinking... Sherlock is fuming with righteous wrath. Wait. Is that he? The smell –

His phone chimes up as he lunges for the kitchen door.

**9. 50**

The kitchen is filled with pungent, acrid smoke. He turns the fire off and pushes a window open, coughing against his shirt sleeve. He doesn't get it. Instead of gathering heat, the chestnuts have opted for collective sati. They are black and brittle and mostly hard when he prods them through the X-shaped incision. Sherlock rubs a frantic tea towel over his laptop screen.

_The best thing is to simply sauté the chestnuts in butter for twenty minutes.*_

_* Buy them peeled and cooked, as they come in packs of 50g and will be easier to_

Sherlock's coughing turns into a hoarse whimper. What now? Think. Think. There has to be a way out. Six, no, five, damn it, four Moves.

**10.02**

"John, I need your popcorn popper pan."

"Merry Christmas to you, too." John's voice is reaching him over a windy, muffled grumble which Sherlock quickly deduces is a car engine no longer in its prime. "Hope for your sake that wasn't an indecent proposal, because Mary is sitting right next to me."

Sherlock represses a sigh and switches into explanatory mood. "I can roast the chestnuts on my open fire, but only if I" – he leans forward to scan the screen – "invest in an iron skillet with holes punched into it. If anyone in my vicinity knows about punching, that would be you."

"Yeah, well, no. Don't think we have one, and anyway we're on our way to visit Mary's mother. She hasn't seen the baby yet. Can it wait till till Boxing Day?"

"No it can't. Lestrade's children are with their mother on Boxing Day."

"You're having Lestrade's kids over at Baker Street? Today?"

"I'm having Lestrade over and yes, I offered to extend my hospitality to his son and daughter. I'm perfectly capable of cooking for four, John, when I put my mind –"

"_You_'re in charge of the meal?"

"John. Please stop asking the answers. It's no help to me, and it's extremely annoying."

"Sorry, sorry." John's voice now sounds a little frayed at the edges, though Sherlock isn't too sure if he is reining in his sorrow for Sherlock's predicament or pure, abject hilarity. Then John relapses and says "Think Plan B and call Angelo? Or Mrs Leong? Honestly, Sherlock. When children are involved, we all should make the safe choice."

"Says the man who called his daughter Clarinet."

"Clare Annette. And you'd better have deduced who your co-godparent is before you meet her." Oh, now John is waxing impatient. As if on cue, a trail of soft, limpid gasps takes over on the waves. The baby, snuffling herself alert at her name. "Look, I need to hang up."

"I know. Tell her Merry Christmas from me. Them."

"Will you be –" But Sherlock has ended the call, the new-born's hushed gurgle still in his ear. Never too late, he thinks, turning to appraise the table. Never too late.

**10.11**

According to the humanist Wendy, he should also have skinned Mycroft before giving him his backrub.

Sherlock turns the heat down and grabs his coat. Three Moves and a two-hour window, give or take, before his guests' arrival. Better give Mycroft a reprieve and reinforce the home front.

**10.28**

Tesco's is closed.

**10.39**

Sainsbury's ditto.

**10.47**

Bloody Asda's ditto. Sherlock is beginning to suspect a pattern.

**10.51**

Raz, whom he finds putting the last twirling touch to some red and green graffiti, points him to a local store three streets further. The store does cigarettes and sweets and newspapers. And food, yeah. Sort of. Raz thinks it closes at eleven-ish. Raz also thinks he knows another store that does crackers, sort of, but it lies far away in the opposite direction, on the very outskirts of Shoreditch.

Sherlock gives Raz fifty pounds and tells him to report before twelve. Then starts off again at a jog.

**11.03**

All Westminster must have been consulting Allrecipes, judging by the sea-serpent of a queue. Sherlock navigates his way in hip to shoulder with an old lady who is busy telling an age peer about her plans for the day. "I couldn't imagine spending Christmas without my little lambs," the lady is stating in a frail, fierce voice, "and neither could my little lambs. Their mother has custody, of course, but Brian always makes sure –" But that's when Sherlock boards the food aisle with the wild step of a buccaneer who has just been let off his yearly plankton diet.

**11.14**

The tiny store doesn't do peeled and cooked chestnuts. Or tinned chestnut soup. Or the European sweet chestnut under any of its avatars.

Sherlock snatches the last packs of Weight Watchers tomato soup, pointedly ignoring the old lady's concerned shake of the head. There has to be a way to Yule it up. Put the crackers in it, perhaps. Or the leftover raisins, after he's baked the pudding. Orange juice, to make it more edgy. The Madeira. Spices, pepper, cinnamon, which Mummy used to sprinkle on his toast for elevenses. Oh God. _Elevenses_.

**11.27**

Yes, all right, he should have remembered to take the goggles off. Can these idiots stop gawking now and _get a move on_?

**11.45**

He swivels out of his coat, rubs the cold off his fingers and stops in the sitting room. Deep breath. Put on Mrs Hudson's parting gift ("children are sensitive to atmosphere, dear") in the CD player. Sweep off the cracker debacle. The extra plates in his hand, he is re-entering the kitchen when he freezes suddenly.

Mrs Hudson is away carousing in Stonehenge because her marriage left her childless (he counts, but he knows it's not the same). John is taking Mary's little lamb to see her grandmother because that's what people do. What traditions make them do. Get their parents and children together for the day.

Six plates. He clearly remembers telling Greg that he would be welcome, « you and yours ». Did Greg tell Mrs Hudson there would four of them coming?

**11.46**

Sodding hell. He can't even remember if Greg actually has any parents living close to London. If he invited them at all, he made a superb job of deleting them subsequently.

**11.47**

Sherlock takes a swig from the bottle and makes a sober guess that Gregory Lestrade had a mother and father forty-six years ago. It's not helping.

**11.49**

Eight swigs later, Sherlock has given up on sober-guessing and gone back to reasoning. It stands to reason that the safe option is to investigate puddings. Pudding brings people together at Christmas. Pudding is a virtuous motivator. He'll give Granny Lestrade his share if necessary. Where's that bloody recipe?

**11.51**

Sherlock hasn't found his recipe. But it's all right, because Nicholas Kurti's theory of molecular gastronomy is quite breathtaking and could open up a new avenue to the preservation of human samples if applied the proper way.

**12.08**

His molecular high is shot down when Raz raps at the door to say cheers and no, Sherlock can't have his crackers. It appears that the 1875 Explosive Acts still makes it against the law to sell crackers to minors and Raz, who is over sixteen but looks closer to twelve when struck down by a cold, could not produce any ID. Doesn't see any reason to either; his spray cans identify him bloody well enough across Central London. Notwithstanding, he has been strongly encouraged to buy a water pistol and a bag of sherbet lemons. He hopes they will do.

**12.10**

Time is playing Sherlock, _crescendo ffffff_. Three Moves. Start the soup? Set the glasses? Text Mycroft to emancipate the crackers? His head aches. The atmospheric CD is playing "Let Nothing Ye Dismay" over and over and _over_ again. And he still hasn't found what you call a reindeer with no eyes.

**12.15**

Sherlock has one elbow inside the bowl and Google sicced on sweetmeats when he takes the call. "Merry Christmas," he says, careful to give each consonant its due, including the perilous "stm".

"You," Mycroft ripostes after a second's startled interval, "are drunk."

"No, I'm not. 'm baking a pudding."

Mycroft sighs but keeps his voice down. In the background, Sherlock can hear a few straggly voices him chorusing in whispers to the sounds of _Silent Night_.

"And you're at the Diogenes," he concludes with a cackle of glee.

"Sherlock." Mycroft has switched to the dripping-with-patience tones with which he usually favours Euro gurus, the _Pravda_'s director of communication and a few veteran Corgis. "I thought you were seeing Detective Inspector Lestrade at lunch."

"'m baking a pudding for Greg and the kids. And the Gregparents." Sherlock knows when he has a point.

"No, you're not. Not unless you have over-excelled yourself and baked a time-machine first. Really, Sherlock, where are your Christmas memories? One always starts a pudding five weeks ahead, and then, according to whether one is a sadist or a Lawsonist, one keeps it in the dark and suffocates it in rum, or one steams it up in foil, turns it upside down and sticks a sprig of holly. _Et voilà_."

"..."

"...Sherlock ? Are you quite all right?"

"I'm fucking this up," Sherlock whispers to no one in particular, looking at the blank walls and the rows of chemicals on the countertop.

"No, no. Look, if it's that important to you, I can have one delivered within the next –"

"I can't even do the fucking puns."

"Oh dear, are we at the self-flagellating stage? None of us could ever do puns, Sherlock. Father flunked the one about which nationality is always in a hurry, at NATO's opening gala, and solved Fermat's last theorem only six weeks later."

Sherlock's eyes slide shut under the pressure of hard thinking.

"...The Russian?"

"You see? Nothing fucked-up about you. Now pick up your spoon and fight. It's a far, far better thing that you're doing for Lestrade now, than you have ever done before."

"Thaa's 'trocious grammar."

"And it is a far, far better rest – but I don't want to know about _that_. Merry Christmas, little brother."

**12.40**

His head fizzes oddly, wonderfully, as Sherlock sets the glasses and banks up the fire. He'll have to stand in for the crackers, but that's all right. Everything is all right. He even thinks he can fix the turkey. It looked a little weird and wrinkled when he took it out of the oven, and that Oliver fellow might have been right about the legs. But it's all right. All he has to do is to simply sauté them in butter for twenty minutes. He's been here before. He knows the moves.

**12.57**

The turkey has taken some persuasion to part with its legs, but they are now crackling merrily with a little help from the butter, the oil and the last dregs of the Madeira. All it needs is a little seasoning. Sherlock is breathing in the fumes and humming along with the flames. And someone is knocking lightly on the kitchen door.

**12.57.04**

Sherlock turns his head, waves to Greg with a beatific smile, and gropes for the salt on the countertop.

**1.02**

Greg's arms are warmly tight about him, his clasp as solid as when he pulled Sherlock back a second before the fire hit the kitchen ceiling. It ran a straight vertical course and no one was hurt, though Mrs Hudson won't be too happy to find that Astrid met an early sacrificial death in the process. The damp potted earth took care of the flames, but the turkey's legs are now lying buried under their own little tumulus.

"You did that all by yourself?" Kes asks in an awed voice, lifting his head from the DO NOT ENTER KITCHEN ON FIRE UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE placard he is drawing with his father's ballpoint pen. "Wow. You should go on television!"

Sherlock is still tempted to bury his face into Greg's neck and wait until the year has wheeled them on and around into the next Christmas when he feels a lighter touch on his wrist. Six-year-old Hannah is gazing up at him with all of a child's focussed gravity and a pair of familiar coffee-brown eyes.

"Did you forget to leave a mince pie for Santa, Mr Holmes?" She slips her hand into his. "Is that why he made you burn the duck?"

"I didn't burn it. The sulphonic acid crystals did," Sherlock answers. Suddenly, all right is making a shy comeback, and he winks at her, tilting his head to one side. "They're very _volatile_."

Greg, who has been shaking with ill-repressed laughter all this time, gives it up and has to clutch Sherlock for balance.

**1.30**

Mrs Leong clears a table at the back for them at the back and rolls the trolley of dim sum next to Sherlock with a maternal smile. "Yes, you can water the carp," she tells Kes who looks more than eager to try his new weapon. "And my son too, if he is too lazy bringing your Coke. But no one else, mind."

Greg leans back in his chair and surveys the place with an approving eye. "Well, well," he says. "That rings a bell or two, eh, sweetie?"

"Daddy always burnt the food at Christmas," Hannah explains to Sherlock, who is showing her how to use chopsticks, having agreed that the china spoon is really for babies. The demonstration is slightly hampered by the fact that Hannah, who is still ascertaining Mr Holmes's degree of grief over the ruined duck, won't let go of his hand. "And then Mummy made Daddy take us here."

"Best place in the City," Greg observes complacently. "Not that far from the Met, too. We could pop in after if you like, Sherlock. Bring the lads some fortune cookies, show the young'uns how to take fingerprints before I whisk them off to watch _Mary Poppins_."

But Sherlock shakes his head. "Wrong, as always. After lunch, we're going home to suck sherbet lemons and open presents before the fireplace." He meets Greg's raised eyebrow with a cheeky grin. "And my remote is bigger than yours."

Before Greg can reply, the door opens on a rush of cold air, and Hannah releases Sherlock to dart forward with a merry cry. Sherlock turns his head in time to see Kes race her to the new couple. He can't make out the woman's face because she has dropped to her knees and is hugging the two children, but her companion, he of the well-toned chest and one-size-too-small Lycra top, looks decidedly glum.

"Like I said," Greg purrs, his eyes dancing, while Sherlock uses the chopsticks to point Mrs Leong and her clients to the farthest opposite angle. "Nothing beats tradition on a day like this. You're a great man, Sherlock Holmes. And this is a great Christmas."

Sherlock smiles and raises his Chinese beer in a salute. "Then tell me, Inspector. What happens when you team up Father Christmas with a detective?"

The answer, of course, is _Santa Clues_ and not the soul-jolting, groin-lifting, warm impetuous kiss that Greg is giving him in the sight of all, patrons, waiters and two innocent children on their way back to the table. But as answers go, Sherlock thinks comfortably, it will more than do on a day like this.


End file.
